Big Little Problem
by midnight-scribblings
Summary: Phil's acting weird, especially on holiday, but Dan doesn't think much of it. That is, until he offers to drive home from their holiday and discovers exactly why.


"I'll drive. You drove all the way here and, to be honest, you look like you need a rest," Dan said, curling his fingers around the shiny silver keys of the hire car. He was the second out of the pair to get his driver's license, but it was a good pass and didn't take much effort.

Besides, wherever they drove any long distances, Phil always jumped to it and normally wouldn't be argued with. It was weird, but Dan didn't question it. He wanted to kind of repay Phil. The ten hour drive from Bordeaux back up to London seemed like the perfect opportunity for his friend to get some rest. He was always up first, already dressed in the morning when Dan was groggily coming to, and always crept into the other twin bed when he had fallen asleep. For whatever reason, Phil didn't sleep much during the holidays, and Dan wanted him to return at least a little rested.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes—you go everywhere, for God's sake. Give it a rest for once," Dan told him, unlocking the car with a satisfying click. The glint of the stars on silver metal didn't go unnoticed.

"It doesn't matter, I can do it if you want," Phil protested, "I don't mind."

"I do, so sit back and relax."

"With you driving? Unlikely," Phil teased, dodging a bony elbow to the ribs.

"At least I didn't fail my test the first time."

"I sneezed! That wasn't my fault!"

Dan laughed, saying something about excuses, and sat in the driver's seat (it had taken some getting used to not to automatically sit to the right) while Phil, somewhat reluctantly, sat next to him. The engine rumbled to life and he glanced back at the luxurious villa that had been their home for three weeks and sighed. No matter what, a London house just wasn't the same.

About an hour into the drive through nighttime France, Phil's typing on his phone slowed, his fingers more clumsy. Dan saw how his eyelids looked a shade darker, saw the purple bags under his eyes. When he stopped at a traffic light, he pressed the lock button, the screen turning black. "Get some sleep. No offense, but you really look like you need it."

Phil shook his head. "I can never sleep in cars."

"It's easy. I'll put something on, then, like background noise. What d'you want?"

Phil settled on a band that triggered some vague memories of random notes in his mind, but that he apparently knew perfectly. The light of the radio lit up his face, the stark white exaggerating exactly how tired he looked. Dan was reassured that it was working when Phil had his head tilted back, eyes closed, letting the music and the quiet roads' sounds wash over him.

Still, it took him the good part of an hour to become properly asleep. Dan's periodic checks became less frequent and more casual. Finally Phil could get the rest he deserved—much less needed—in the car, where it didn't matter. Time wasn't wasted and besides, it was a ten-hour journey if the traffic was minimal. Which, due to their luck, it wasn't, with the prospect of more in England looming on the horizon like an unwanted gift. Dan didn't really want to face it but it was inevitable.

The rough surface of small, quieter country roads faded out and was replaced by freshly-laid highway tarnac. Dan groaned at the long queue of cars that stretched up the hill, until they were just blobs of shiny colour in the distance. Hopefully the traffic was simply normal motorway congestion. But when a lady in a neon-green reflected jacket walked down the gaps between lanes of cars, a hard hat firmly on her head, he swallowed.

Using what limited French he remembered, Dan called out, "Que se passe-t-il?" What's going on?

"Il y avait un accident. Il y avait quatre voitures, mais elles travaillent dur pour l'éclaircir. Il faudrait environ deux heures quatre heures." she said apologetically.

Dan didn't catch much, save for the accident and two to four hours bit, but he smiled and thanked her nonetheless. But then again, the delay let Phil sleep for longer, which was good. Cars were now stretching way back behind him, and he was glad that they were roughly in the middle. Otherwise it would be a lot longer.

Turning off the engine meant turning off the music, which Dan was starting to enjoy, so he left it on. He probably shouldn't have—wasting petrol and all of that—but it kept it warm. For a while, there wasn't much sound at all, just soft engines on a highway at night.

Then Phil gave a soft moan in his sleep, causing Dan to look with an amused smirk. If it carried on, he'd have to get a video of it on his phone. Instead of the moans, a gentle hissing filled the air and a gleaming wet spot showed up on his grey jogging trousers, expanding slowly. It covered his crotch and ran down the side of his legs until most of his trousers were soaked. As if that wasn't enough, urine was pooling on the seat, overflowing at the edge when there was too much.

Dan stared, transfixed. He'd heard of bedwetting, and hell, had done it a couple of times when he was drunk, but had never seen it that bad. Seeing that, it all clicked into place; why Phil went to bed later, woke up earlier. Why in hotels he never shared beds.

"Fucking hell," Dan sighed. Now he could stop worrying that Phil was ill of something.

Phil was still as deeply asleep as ever. Dan decided that if he hadn't woken up, he was going to let him sleep. God knows he needed the sleep and he'd only panic if he woke up. He wanted to go as long as possible without that.

Sod's bloody Law, the massive truck a few cars behind them decided, for reasons unknown, to blast out the horn. It was loud. Phil jerked awake, the seatbelt locking in place as he looked around, confused. Then froze.

"We're stuck in a traffic jam; there was an accident. Apparently it'll take two to four hours so we're not going to be moving much. You've been asleep for quite a while."

"Asleep?"

Dan hesitated. "Yeah."

"I-I'm sorry, I'll pay for the cl-cleaning, don't worry, it's my—"

"Phil. It doesn't matter."

"It does! I'm thirty; it's not normal! It's not supposed to happen!"

"Have you been to a doctor?"

"No! Why would I do that again?" Phil swallowed thickly, "Mum took me when I was eleven and they said it'd just go away."

"It hasn't, though. I think you probably should get it checked out, just in case. Don't want you getting ill."

Phil shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'd rather be ill. At least they can cure being ill. They can't cure this."

"Yeah, I know. But it's probably true what they said anyway. That said, seriously, go to the doctor's. And if anything gets out, we'll sue the shit out of them."

"You don't have a law degree."

"Yeah, but I've got an above-average knowledge of how that stuff works and money. It'll be fine."

"The stupid doctor doesn't matter! As long as it carries on, nothing else matters," Phil sniffed, staring down at his lap as hot tears spilled from his eyes, "I still wet the bed like a l-l-little kid every s-single night! Every t-t-time I fall asleep for long I d-do it! It's never fine or alright or okay, it's not r-ri-right. I'm not meant to wet the bed!"

Dan undid his seatbelt and leant over to hug Phil. He let his friend's head dig into his shoulder, felt the hit wet stains on his t-shirt, but he didn't care. "Shhh, it's not that bad, okay? It's just—not even annoying."

"But it's every night," Phil mumbled. Dan had to turn down the music to even hear him.

"Phil, the only reason at all that I am kind of annoyed is that you didn't tell me! You had me worried that you were sick or something, especially on holiday," Dan said gently.

"I'm sorry. I was scared you'd laugh. Be mad. Whatever," Phil protested weakly.

"Phil, you spork, why would I be annoyed? Don't apologise. I don't care, in fact, it's better this way. Now I don't have to worry."

"I'm sorr—okay. But what am I going to do?"

By now, Phil had shuffled back in his seat, sending waves of wee sloshing over the edge. His hair was ruffled and his cheeks damp, but his eyes shone just a little. "Like I said; see a doctor. And anyway, can't you get stuff for wetting the bed?"

"Pills or something? I'd tried them all before I was thirteen."

"No, no—those sheet thingies? Wait, did you have to do the laundry all the time?"

"When you went out, I did. I had spare sheets under my bed in case you didn't go out for ages," Phil explained.

"Oh. Well, obviously, you can just wash them now."

"Yeah."

"God, honestly, you had me worried it was a big problem," Dan laughed lightly.

"It was," Phil said, blushing.

"It's not any more. Big little problem. Hey, like LittleBigPlanet."

Phil laughed, and that was all Dan needed to hear. It was going to be alright—he was going to make it be.


End file.
